


Through a Glass Darkly

by rijane



Category: Moonlight (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Feeding, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rijane/pseuds/rijane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth blushed, the flush spilling over her cheeks, her arms, her everywhere, and Mick wanted to lap at it, tip her down his throat and turn his own mouth red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through a Glass Darkly

Screams filled his ears.

Then the rattle of metal on wood, the rise and fall of bodies and the wailing wind against open mouths and flailing arms.

Mick raced around the Prius to get Beth's door, but she'd already flung it open. He was there soon enough to take her hand as she rose, though. He held tight, letting his body steal her warmth.

"Which way?" he asked, though he could easily follow the sounds, the smell.

"Follow the screaming teenagers." Beth raced down the lane, her arm outstretched. Mick's grip slipped to just two of her fingers as she nearly tumbled toward the lights at the end of the dusty road. The odor of hot oil and deep fried hit her and her stomach growled. "I haven't eaten a thing since yesterday. I'm going to enjoy my coronary, damn it."

Mick laughed, the low roll sending shivers through her.

"If the goal is death deep fried, then why am I here, exactly?"

"To carry my food, so I don't look like a complete pig. Let's put that vampire strength to good use." Mick kept a grip on her as Beth took off down the path, letting her excitement pull him along.

Within minutes, Beth was in line for one of the many fried somethings on a stick. A corn dog and ketchup and vinegar-doused shoestring fries, a tub of cherry-flavored sugar and shaved ice. Beth assigned the bucket of fries to Mick and tore into the corn dog and cherry ice.

"When was the last time you came to a carnival?" Beth's gaze flickered at the rows of booths and bustle all around. The night sky was lit up with stark white, flashing lights and everything a garish color. The layers of fear, the relief of escape and the thrill of death mingled with Beth's.

"Not since," a hand flicked at his eyes as he let them flash.

"Really? But it's one of those places best enjoyed in the dark," his eyes fixed on her mouth, her red-tinged tongue teasing at the plastic straw – her tip caught and he broke the gaze. "Never?"

"For our little case of arrested development, I cased the Pier and waited. Not as fun as this version." His eyes captured hers, promises of the night ahead.

Beth blushed, the flush spilling over her cheeks, her arms, her everywhere, and Mick wanted to lap at it, tip her down his throat and turn his own mouth red.

Beth took a swig of her cherry ice, eyeing the bucket in Mick's hand.

Mick pulled out a few fries and proffered them to the ravenous blonde.

"Oh!" Beth squealed, opening her mouth. Mick slid them in and her tongue darted out, licking the drops of vinegar and red tomato streaks from his fingers. She lingered a little and Mick felt his eyes flash, his groin tighten.

"You are the man of my dreams," Beth took another bite of the corn dog. "Strong, hot and willing to feed me."

"Only if you return the favor," Mick said, silver eyes steady on her this time.

She flushed and her pounding heart filled him. The roar of blood and lust and fear. And he drank it in, barely resisted the urge to take his own bite, to tear into her full lips like luscious berries, squirting their sweet juice into his mouth; his fangs itched to rip.

"Maybe I will," came her husky whisper with a breath of uncertainty.

A piercing shriek broke the moment as a ride cracked the air, whipping bodies near and away from them.

"Wildcat," Mick murmured, shaking the silver back to hazel and trying to shake away the dark whispers of his mind.

"What?"

"There," he tilted his head toward the screaming metal. "The Wildcat. Don't you want to ride any rides before you make yourself sick?"

Beth dropped the remainder of her corn dog in the trash, left the ice to melt in the summer heat.

"A hot dog is suddenly not what I'm hungry for." She grabbed Mick's arm – adrenaline crashing through her – and let herself be led from the shadows to the flashing lights of the midway.

Following the traditions of fairs, carnivals and theme parks everywhere, the lines snaked through metal guides. The smell of the herd twisted Mick's insides. His hand shook away the urge to throw bodies and whip Beth to the ground, tearing and scratching his way out of the limitations of flesh.

His hand slipped against her, around her. As the line moved infinitesimally, he lunged her forward, lights twinkling in her vision and surrendering kisses with abandon.

Finally, the agitation became contagious. She moved into the shadow of him and thrummed her fingers against his spine, until his nerves burned with her. Mick captured her arm, bringing her beside him and trapping her arm with his. Beth leaned out far, too far, arcing in and out with a grip on his arm for balance, the two in a frenetic dance amid the crush of humanity.

Suddenly Beth righted herself, still holding his arm, and stepped out of line.

"Let's go in here," she swung Mick toward a trailer tucked at the edge of the rides. No lights, no bells or whistles. And no lines, just a bored carnie manning the entrance.

She darted ahead while Mick fished out his wallet.

"Give us a few minutes?" he pressed bills into the man's callused palm.

"Sure," a scrape of metal as the chain latched across the gates. The man made himself scarce, a flick of lighter and smoke behind a pole, and Mick plunged into the dark after her.

Beth was already down the hall, phosphorescent in the strange glow of the mirrors and light. Blue lights skittered across their skin, the familiar now alien.

She hesitated before the row of mirror, a teasing smile. "Are you sure you have a reflection?"

"I do whenever I shave," he dove toward her and rubbed the scratch of stubble against her cheek, red rising. "So not lately."

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to the first mirror where his eyes, bruised and submerged in silver stared back, showing her. He wrapped arms around her and squeezed tight, letting her scent roll through him, her perfume, her soap, her.

With the ache of fang falling, he moved away, ducking behind the nearest turn and following the simple labyrinth out of her sight. The air sharpened with her fear, adrenaline pumping, sweat pooling at the small of her back.

The rhythm of the night paced with her breath. Faster, tighter. Breasts heaving in all the wrong ways. And all the right ones.

"Mick?"

He tilted and a mirror caught them together.

"Here," he couldn't keep the growl from his voice. She twirled and caught the flash of his light eyes before he slipped closer, between the refractions.

"Come back, Mick," her voice hovered between a whine and a plea.

"Come through the looking glass, Alice," Mick's reflection bounced to a mirror just in front of her. Beth, tongue licking her cherry stained lips, took a hesitant step and met glass. He felt anger join fear, the rush of lust eating at both.

"Damn it."

His laugh echoed through the building. But not the sweet roll – something far harsher, from a different part of Mick. Beth twirled around. She cocked her head to follow the sound.

Two steps and another cold, hard surface. No laughter this time, just a rumble, an animal sound that sent an instinctual tremor through her.

She closed her eyes. Beth let herself veer off with one hand on the row of mirrors. Step. Another. A stuttering dance toward him. She paused. Two quick steps and she crashed into a different cool, hard surface.

Her eyes opened wide – and his fangs were full out, the whitewash of eyes fixed on her, her mouth, her throat. Barely a squeak of surprise emerged before his hands were on her skin, squeezing her tight at the hips, the pressure against bone sure to bruise.

With a flick of his hand, she tumbled back, nausea rising against gravity, his hand at the small of her back and the rest of him above. He knelt over her, filling her view.

"Mine." he breathed against her, tongue licking the sweat from between her breasts. He could taste her, her fear and her fantasy all tangled together.

"My Beth," his fangs, points fine as needles, made a chain of small scrapes against her skin. No blood, just his mark on her.

"Yours," she gasped. Her breath turned to pants and her body refused to still. Rolls of hunger for him countered the fear.

But his hunger was first tonight. Her blood glowed warm against her skin. His fingers traced the flow.

"Fire, fire burning bright," his eyes chased the blood from her heart to her hands. He pricked her finger, first blood on his tongue. Mick sucked down her swallowed scream and desperation and came back to himself, if only a little.

"Scared?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Keep going. Drink me."

Mick laid a fevered kiss against her throat, the pumping of her veins pushing at him. His mouth followed the vein to her breast, taking it into his mouth and biting down, barely, squeezing the ripeness of the fruit as his fingers played the unseen map downward. Heart to hip to leg.

His lips landed on the blue trail of her inner thigh, one of the few places on her not kissed by sun. His tongue teased the vein, the smell of sex and blood overwhelming him. Her muscles tensed and she was wet.

He tapped a fang against her. Pin pricks, a welling of red on white. Then he bit down. Hard, opening her and drawing her into him, the spice of the chase, the sweet of love and the rich of lust. She squeezed her thighs tight around him, blood pumping faster. A trickle spilled from the edge of mouth.

He lapped up his mess, her mess and her legs released. A tongue against the wound. Licking the spoon as the blood dried.

Mick straightened. He moved flush against her and rested an ear against her breast, on top of her heart, listening to the blood racing through him race through her.

Her breath came fast and hard while he steadied himself against her. A hand moved to his head, the fingers catching tight in the curls. But they were soon forgotten when Beth's other hand snaked down and hooked in his jeans.

Mick realized he was still hard against her. Thin scraps of denim and cotton between their skin.

He rose with the clatter of his belt buckle and the hush of leather through loops. Shoes flung and the sound of breaking glass. The fabric disappeared and they were skin to skin.

With the taste of her still in his mouth, he opened wide, running fangs across her lips. They ripped twin scrapes, spilling her sweet blood into their kiss. The iron tang rolled across his tongue and hers.

She shifted beneath him, tilting, back arched and hands clawing through his hair, no words for her desperation. With a shiver, he pushed into her warmth and the echo of her inside and out, up and down, rang through him.

Her muscles squeezed tight, so tight, too tight. A spike of heat inside her. Then the release and the blood beneath her skin changed. The languor, the flood of hormones.

Unable to help himself, he bit softly at her neck and sipped the new blood, seasoned with her climax. He let the chaser mix with her fear-laced blood while he was still in her.

She took gulping breaths against his shoulder, the scent of him now in her lungs, moving across cells into the depths of her. She exhaled and he withdrew.

His head found its way back to her heart as it slowed, the beats falling from the frenzied tempo. His arm wrapped around, below her breasts and tight.

"Do you hear it?"

She shook her head.

"The ocean," Mick grabbed her hand and set it on top of the beat.

"I can't. I can only feel you," Beth sighed. Her eyes fixed on the far off reflection of his dark head on her golden skin, the glass catching them. His pale glow, cuts on her thigh and neck, lips.

Eventually the tide receded and Mick stood. The awkward motions of dressing – her underwear torn, his pants, her pants. Shoes and broken glass.

Dressed, Beth leaned into Mick. She buried her face in the cool curve of his neck, lips against the muscles, chin tucked against his collarbone and his arms around her.

Too soon, she pulled away, but entwined her arm around his, tight to him.

He navigated the mirrors, her eyes fixed on their reflections the entire way until they were outside in the night air with the crowds of warm, screaming bodies, the world beyond them.

Mick leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"Now let's feed Beth."


End file.
